Reverie
by csfcsf
Summary: Sherlock was knocked unconscious while solving a case. In this state he dwells in his mind palace, rebuilding slowly. There are his memories to keep him occupied, and John and Redbeard become his main company. At first it's peaceful, then slowly memories of the last events surface, showing him that he may have made a serious mistake in staying so long. Why can't he get out?
1. Chapter 1

_**.**_

Sherlock woke up with a jolt and the nagging feeling that he had overslept. Which was ridiculous. Sherlock was sure he needed less sleep then the average human, and to assume he had indulged in a waste of time for more than necessary was outrageous. Hence, he woke up in a foul mood.

As soon as he took a good look around, his mood morphed into something different. Relief.

Sherlock was home.

Not his Baker Street home. The other home, that no one could ever damage or taint, that was only his to proudly carry as a secret treasure. His Mind Palace. His secret home, that he could pull out of the hat whenever he needed to, that allowed him to relax, and ponder, and find solutions to his beloved cases.

This was the first time that Sherlock woke up into his Mind Palace, but it didn't really concern him. It felt right, homely, warm, cosy. He belonged there.

As soon as he got out of the comfortable duvets of his imaginary bed – okay, everything there was, strictly speaking, imaginary, so he'd lower his accuracy standards and just call it his bed – his feet touched the hardwood floors, they felt warm. There was a rug nearby, and old oak wood furniture, a busy patterned wallpaper and some pictures on the walls, and a window, shedding sunny daylight into his bed. It wasn't his bedroom in Baker Street, but it felt familiar. Sherlock just couldn't quite place it.

He didn't mind, not yet. There was a sense of peace in him, one that it was so rare, that he embraced it fully. It wouldn't diminish his curiosity, though, and he set off to the door, to hang about the Palace.

He still couldn't recall what got him there, but that was okay, it'd come back to him. Later.

He was in one of his long hallways, symmetrically laid doors on each side. The corridors were, in contrast, empty and cold. White parallel walls, punctuated by dark solid doors, as if guarding the memories they held inside. Everything was ordered, neat, rational in the hallways. They were the bone structure of the construction, as if branches on a tree.

Sherlock walked slowly and knowingly into one of the rooms, his dressing gown flapping to his each step behind him, replacing his usual long wool coat.

He took his hand to the handle, twisted it, and opened it. The warmth of the room hit him, appeasing. It smelled of burning logs in the fireplace, and of tea. It reminded him of Baker Street. And sure enough, there was a familiar Bauhaus leather and steal chair, by the fireplace. All around the chair and mantle, there were stacks high of bookshelves filled with hundreds of books describing his memories, mostly in old binds and musty smelling pages, because even though they were being kept as precious pieces of his past, he didn't revisit them often. That was the Library of his childhood.

He looked back behind him. By the tea tray on a small side table there was a wagging tail dog, staring back at him with an affectionate smirking dog, full of loyalty and bustling energy. Redbeard.

_**.**_

* * *

_A/N: "Why?" I don't know. It's very 80's-ish. I only have the first few chapters down, and I'm uploading two just for added pressure (make or break time). Please let me know if it's just too weird (in a bad way), if you feel like reviewing. –csf_

_Disclaimer: I don't own these characters or their previous feats._


	2. Chapter 2

_**.**_

'Hello, boy', the consulting detective was rubbing his furry ears as he got lick across his cheek up to his curly hair. It didn't bother him. A part of him just felt like rolling on the floor with his dog, just like he did as a child. 'Redbeard, what are you doing here? I didn't get you, how did you appear?'

Sherlock could get, or just summon, pets and people alike to other quarters of his Palace. This was the first time it had happened on its own, though. For once he felt a tinge of worry. His mental process was in disarray. He still easily brushed it aside. He'd deal with it later.

'You're not hungry, are you?' Silly question, memory-based dogs don't get hungry, unless you feel like feeding them. There was always some level of control over his memory-based spectrums living in his Palace. Somehow they retained the appearance of who they were in reality, but also complied with Sherlock's needs.

Well, with one notable exception. But he'd leave that for later.

Right now, he needed answers. Who could provide Sherlock with much needed answers? There was only one almost omniscient person, even if he was in little hurry to summon _him_ along.

With a sigh, the detective realized that his curiosity outweighed the inconveniences of bringing Mycroft in there. He still retained all control over his Palace, so he'd be sure to shut the door on Mycroft when he got too annoying to bear.

With a small whistle he called Redbeard to join him back into the hall, and accompany him over to Mycroft's room.

Sort of a dungeon room, really. With heavy steal walls, an industrialised bunker, unbreachable, the core of rationality and order.

Sherlock reached for the handle, much like he had done before. To his surprise, it was stuck. It wouldn't budge. He couldn't open the door.

Well, that was odd. A glitch in his Palace was extremely unordinary.

For the first time ever, he worried. He couldn't reach Mycroft (there is always a silver lining to every dark cloud). That meant he needed to find another way around to his memories, and to an explanation of what was going on.

As if reading the mind of his companion, Redbeard wailed slowly, sadly. Sherlock just lowered himself, took hold of his red brown fur and messed it on top of his head. This seemed to brighten the both of them for now.


	3. Chapter 3

_**.**_

Sherlock wondered around his Palace halls, testing doors as he went. Some of his most rational doors were locked, some of his old family memories begged him to come inside, invitingly. He really wanted to give in, and stay there, but he always abandoned his mother's kitchen with the smell of biscuits baking, or the music conservatory where he'd sneak into after school to hear the musicians playing before he joined them years later with his violin. Sherlock needed to keep focus. With Redbeard by his side, it was about time he found some answers. He needed to understand what was going on with his body. Why had he woken up inside his Mind Palace, having made no effort to get in.

Had there been a trigger during his sleep? Had he been poisoned with some hallucinogenic substance during a case? Had he had a stroke?

'Come on, Redbeard. We need to find Molly. She's a doctor, she'll know the answer.'

Redbeard barked in acquiescence. If Redbeard had a mind of his own, he might have pointed out that she wasn't the only doctor he trusted, but Redbeard was conditioned to Sherlock.

Together they set out to Molly's room.

The door gave in easily. Again it was warmer inside, even though it smelled slightly of formaldehyde and cleaning fluid (not at all unpleasant for Sherlock). Definitely a reminiscent memory of meeting Molly at St. Barts' morgue lingered, even if the room was bright and flowery. There was a collection of little knick-knacks around, that Palace Molly had come up with on her own, and there she was, at the bay window seat, reading a book set over her knees.

'Hello, Sherlock. Come to visit me?' she smiled, awkward and proud, as she greeted him.

'Molly, I need your help.' In real life Sherlock wasn't one to waste time in pointless manners, so why would he do that in his own grounds? That wasn't the real Molly, just an imprint memory of her, and Palace Molly didn't skip a beat.

'Is everything okay, Sherlock?' she worried. Even there Molly was supportive.

'I don't know', he surprised himself by confessing it out loud so easily. 'I don't know how I got here, Molly. Am I alright? Did anything happen?'

'Sherlock...' she looked sad, all of a sudden. 'You know I can't tell you that.'

'You can't. _You_ can't. Who can, Molly?'

She pointedly looked behind Sherlock, to the open door. Sherlock turned around. John was standing by the door, still in the hall. The detective looked back at Molly, confused. She just smiled and assured him: 'I'll be here if you need me, Sherlock.'

'So John can explain it to me?' he tried to be sure, before he'd go.

She nodded, without even a sound.

_**.**_

* * *

_A/N: An explanatory note to people who know my other works - I always come up with weird plots when I'm in pain (I'm just fine, now). This reminds me of the 80's meeting the Sci-fi genre, for some reason, and I'm keeping it that way. Possibly because there are rules in this Mind Palace, that keep Sherlock from accessing all of the information at once. That's why Molly can't answer him. It'll all be more apparent soon._

_This story is still under construction but I think I can pull it through. About 20 chapters, around 500 words each. Still weird (hopefully not in a bad way). -csf_


	4. Chapter 4

_**.**_

'John, you're a doctor, what is wrong with me?'

John was by Sherlock's side, as he poured some tea for the detective seating in his chair by the fireplace, in Sherlock's Library. John had said nothing in the hall, only stopped to smile and caress Redbeard's ears gently. As the doctor now handed the tea cup to the detective, Sherlock suddenly realized it was the first time he had allowed John to enter the Library. Even considering as Mind Palace John always had a knack for being found walking around freely, instead of being confined to his own room, like the few people that Sherlock allowed in the Palace were.

'There', Sherlock waved his hand, pretending to be bored, as he added a tapestry chair to the Library, setting it facing his. 'Have a seat.'

John smirked. His new chair was very similar to his Baker Street chair, but in a changed colour. Sherlock always needed to have the last word.

As John sat on his blue chair, he was gazing back at Sherlock in that honest wide-eyed confidence that defined him, and for a moment Sherlock was sorry he had chosen a blue tapestry, that brought out the striking colour of those eyes set on him.

'You can say something, John', he protested, still annoyed.

'You look troubled, Sherlock.'

'I'm annoyed at you in advance. You're the one that I can't really control in my Palace, it's like you have a mind of your own in here. It's as if you're going to take over, or something.'

John frowned. 'I could never take over your Mind Palace, Sherlock.'

'You never follow my instructions.'

He mocked, with a impish smirk: 'Your wish is my command, sire!'

'You're not a knight, John. Look, I just... Well, I guess I'm going to have to trust you. Can you tell me why am I here? I can't seem to get out, John.'

John was absent-mindedly inviting Redbeard over to his lap. 'I dunno, Sherlock. And if I'm a spectrum of your imagination, then how can I know more than you do?'

'You don't know more than I do, but you may access data that I can't. Something happened, John, maybe a poison, hopefully not a stroke, and I need help to get to the information that is stored incorrectly.'

'Oh, like rebooting a computer?'

'More like the directory messed up the file order', Sherlock corrected impatiently. Then he remembered John was a two-fingered typist, and cleared: 'If I try on my own, I may be stuck in here for months.'

'How do you know how long you've been here already, Sherlock?'


	5. Chapter 5

_**.**_

'_How do you know how long you've been here already, Sherlock?'_

**_._**

'Now you're making it worst, John, for heaven's sake...'

'Don't worry, Sherlock, it's nice in here', he mentioned the Library with an admiring look around them, 'and soon you'll find your answers and you'll be out the Palace door.'

'Will you help me, then?' the detective insisted, still suspicious of Palace John.

John smiled warmly. 'Have I ever denied helping you?'

Sherlock finally felt some relief.

'Now, I don't remember much, John. I know we were on a case, outside London.'

'You asked me to come along. Went to my house, even spoke to Mary, all of that before actually asking me. Then you told me about the case. Of course I said Yes.'

Sherlock remembered that now, very clearly. As if John's recount was the key to unlocking those memories. He had barged into the Watson's house as soon as Mary opened the door (he'd have picked the lock if necessary) and started telling her all about this exciting new case. He saw that they clearly already had ordinary plans for their off-day from work, but he derailed those plans immediately. Scotland Yard needed them, John would never let the opportunity pass for helping his Queen and Country. Mary just gave in with a sigh, she knew it was just about hopeless when Sherlock was that fired up. John finally came downstairs to meet them, and Sherlock brought him up to speed even faster than he had Mary. 'I showed you Lestrade's file. The case was something about...' he couldn't quite piece it together, what John hadn't brought into the open, and he was growing a headache from trying.

'We should go and ask Greg, maybe he can tell us.' Apparently Palace John didn't know that either.

Sherlock nodded, slowly. 'And we need to find out what happened to me. Molly said you could tell me what happened.'

John tilted his head to the side, silent. 'I think we should start with Greg, and then go from there. Is that alright, Sherlock?'

'Stop pretending I have a choice', he glared back at his friend, who was patting Redbeard's fur. The dog was gently sleeping in his lap, trustingly. Well, maybe Sherlock could trust John too. After all he was right. That was a nice place to be in. Perhaps the outside world could wait a little longer.

'Sherlock, I feel really tired', John confessed all of a sudden with some sadness. 'Perhaps you wouldn't mind playing the violin? It always makes me feel better.'

Sherlock felt proud and somewhat awkward. John never said it out loud before, though it was evident in his expression whenever he played his friend's favourite pieces. 'John, why are you tired? You belong here, you shouldn't be tired in here.'

'I really can't tell you why, Sherlock, I'm sorry.'

Sherlock frowned, something was wrong. 'John?'

'Your Palace's rules, not mine, sorry. I can't break your rules, but perhaps I can still show you. We really should go speak with Greg.'


	6. Chapter 6

_**.**_

'_We really should go speak with Greg.'_

__**.**__

Sherlock frowned. 'Don't be an idiot, John, I'm not going to see Lestrade, he can come to me.' Immediately after he said it there were knocks on the door. John looked over his shoulder, as Greg made his way in, without waiting for a proper invitation. Then again, he had just been sort of beamed there, normal conveniences didn't apply.

'Lestrade, tell me all that you know.'

The conjured image of the Scotland Yard's DI wouldn't miss a bit of his own personality, turning a knowing look over at John, mocking the impulsive detective. 'Nice to see you too, Sherlock. What do you want to know?'

'What happened? How did I get here?' Sherlock left his chair immediately, energized, to face the detective inspector.

'Nice try, Sherlock, but I can't tell you that... Look, maybe if you ask me the right questions, instead of being stubborn...' he insisted with appeasing gestures that only ticked Sherlock off more.

'You're just annoyed that I'm more useful to you than a room full of your agents.'

'Are we really going to stand here and argue like this, Sherlock? We're wasting time.'

'I have plenty of time, I'm stuck here. Didn't I just tell you that?' he bit back.

Greg frowned. 'Sometimes I wish you'd listen to me more carefully.'

It was Sherlock's time to frown, but he went on: 'Can you tell me about the case?'

Greg nodded. 'Nasty case. A bomber planted three bombs in three public places outside London. Several casualties reported, not a pretty picture. A high profile case and Scotland Yard was directed to join in, _all hands on deck_. I figured I could add your hands to the said deck, we really need to catch this bomber before he does it again.'

'I said Yes.'

'Immediately. And with a glow in your eyes that is hardly decent. You stormed out of Baker Street saying you'd meet me there. When I asked you where you were going, you shouted over your shoulder that you needed to get John.'

The mention of John made Sherlock turn to his friend. Why hadn't he told Sherlock that information? Apparently only first hand conversations could be reported. Another Palace rule Sherlock must have instated before. "Hear say" conversations were banned, in order to preserve all scientific accuracy in each statement. Well, that was a bother now.

'I need to change my rules', he protested to himself before he caught sight of John's expression. John didn't look well at all.

And as if to prove that something was wrong with him, Redbeard, that had refused to leave him since they met in the hall, was now licking his face to smarten the man. 'John, you're not well.'


	7. Chapter 7

_**.**_

'_John, you're not well.'_

__**.**__

That couldn't happen, thought the frustrated detective. His Palace was all wrong, as if short-circuiting on its own rules. Palace John was a fabricated memory, how could he look unwell? He had no physical body, he was a mirrored expression of the real life John.

Hesitantly, because the lack of consistency of his own rules was starting to be worrisome, Sherlock reached out to the seating doctor. He looked pale and tired. As he laid a hand on John's arm resting on the chair, he felt him to be cold. Sherlock looked over at the fire in the mantle. Somehow the steady glow it produced wasn't warming John. 'Here, John, I'll fabricate you a blanket, you need one.'

John smiled thankfully as he took the blanked that Sherlock found right next to them.

As the blanket appeared, Greg Lestrade seemed to have made a disappearance act of his own. Sherlock would bother with him later.

Sherlock insisted that John should rest for a while, as he played his violin for him. The warm sound of strings reverberating, and the crackling of the logs burning in the fireplace, lulled John and Redbeard to sleep in the blue tapestry chair. Even in the pale glow of the fireplace it was evident that John was becoming paler, as time elapsed. That had never happened in his Mind Palace, and should be an impossibility. Unless it was a clue in itself. A messed up memory twisting its way into this alternative reality Sherlock had forged while working this mysterious case.

With a cold twist in his stomach he was realizing this wasn't a short-circuit of his Palace. This was a real memory fighting its way into his subconscious mind, his dream sequence. Sherlock wasn't really awake, he had known it from the start. His mind had wondered into his Palace in search for solace or healing, but slowly it was piecing things together. Judging by John's appearance, something was wrong in the world outside. This was some memory that had got detached and now was returning in the form of clues.

John was pale and cold. That was not a good omen.

John was sitting down on his chair. No, no, the chair had been Sherlock that had gotten for him. That wasn't a clue.

John had appeared all of a sudden, not having been summoned, as he was talking to Molly. Wandering the halls like a Shakespearean ghostly appearance, looking for Sherlock. Yet, he couldn't tell him the relevant facts of what had happened.

Finally John stirred awake.

'Alright, John, I talked to Lestrade', Sherlock sighed about having to follow John's lead. 'Not that it helped much. So, what need I do now?'

John smiled, as if trying to instil him with confidence.

'Sherlock, you need to find Mycroft.'


	8. Chapter 8

_**.**_

'_Sherlock, you need to find Mycroft.'_

__**.**__

'He didn't answer the door, John.'

'I said _find him_. Why won't you listen to what we are telling you?' Palace John was scrunching his face in discomfort and being downright testy. 'You've missed out on so many clues already, Sherlock, and I'm trying. I'm really trying, but I can't hold on forever.'

Sherlock was looking at him blankly. All he could wrap his mind around was the fact that John was unwell, and all the while he was insisting for Sherlock to ignore him and be more rational. It felt surreal. Scratch that. Everything since he had woken up in his Mind Palace instead of his... somewhere else... was off, to say the least. What did people without Mind Palaces do in these circumstances? Was this Sherlock's own curse?

Trying to regain focus – he was losing focus the longer he stood there, he realized all of a sudden – he needlessly told John. 'I tried summoning him, John. He didn't come either.'

'Told you already, half a dozen times, you need to leave me here and go find Mycroft.'

'What will he do for me?'

'I don't know.'

'Don't lie to me, John!' Sherlock lost his temper, yelling back at his friend. Redbeard was startled awake in John's lap, and looking over at Sherlock he actually made a low growling sound. Redbeard was defending the man sitting on the chair, in a protective mode. Sherlock's stomach gave a turn. Redbeard had never done that before. If anything his dog was supposed to be defending Sherlock, not John. What was going on? Was it a clue? Was there a reason why he had taken to liking John so fast? Why protecting John over Sherlock?

Oblivious to Sherlock's confusion, John was all rallied up now, defending his need for deflecting and lying: 'Then don't ask me what I cannot answer! These – are – your – rules!' John hissed back.

'Well, then, the rules are wrong!' he proclaimed, exasperated.

'You made them up, you undo them!' John defied him.

'Well, I can't now, can I?'

Finally John seemed to take a deep breath. He asked in a pleading exhausted voice: 'Isn't there an escape trap door or something?'

'I never needed one for the Palace, but there may be one for the rules. There is always a way to break a rule. Just keep yourself sitting down, John, and let me have a good look at you.'

John allowed it promptly. Sherlock gave him a long measured look.

Even if he couldn't talk, he was still a product of Sherlock's mind, a figment of his imagination, maybe he carried answers in himself, symbols or encrypted clues as to what Sherlock was missing. He was wearing the old oatmeal coloured jumper (hideously comfy), jeans, his best shoes. Nothing unusual in his outfit. So, no clues there. Sherlock kept scanning his friend attentively, but his haircut was the same, his pockets were empty, there were no mysterious stains in his outfit that could help pinpoint a geographical location. It was just like analyzing a corpse on a crime scene, only John seemed to be as plain and honest in his blue armchair as he was in real life, incapable of hiding things from Sherlock.

'Happy with what you see?'

Palace John was being cheeky, now, and Sherlock just glared at him. He should never had have that conversation about tailors and proper outfits, John was never letting that one go.

All the while, John was looking downright beat. Sherlock would let him rest. With a melodic whistle, he called Redbeard to his side. The strangely unfaithful dog hesitated a second before obeying. 'Rest here, John, I'm going to find Mycroft.' John nodded, with a relieved smile.


	9. Chapter 9

_**.**_

_'Rest here, John, I'm going to find Mycroft.'_

_**.**_

'Mycroft!' Sherlock Holmes, genius detective, was reduced to roaming the halls of his Mind Palace calling out his brother's name in the hope that he'd materialise himself at last. Only Redbeard walked by his side, now. John had stayed in the library, resting. Ever since Redbeard had left John he wasn't the same joyous puppy. It was as if he could tell by the heavy atmosphere that something was wrong. Redbeard was more attentive, now, alert. The hunting instinct was flaring in a protective attitude.

The silence was shattered by an old telephone ringing. Sherlock turned abruptly. On a corner he found a red telephone booth, just like so many others in London, only this one, the Mind Palace's owner was sure, had never been there before.

The call was obviously for Sherlock. He climbed in the small structure, leaving the door open and Redbeard sitting outside. He took the ear piece in his hand and threatened: 'Mycroft, if this is some sort of joke, if this is your fault...'

Mycroft's tone of voice was aggravating, as he recalled: 'Just like when we were kids. You always told Mummy it was my doing. Even here, in your... Mind Palace, as you call it... Doesn't look much like a Palace to me.'

'Mycroft!' Sherlock shouted at the phone, before getting a grip. 'Mycroft, what happened, why am I here. You know the answers and you know my rules. You can tell me everything so I can stop wasting my time with Greg and John.'

Outside the booth, Redbeard wailed. Sherlock frowned. It was as if he was defending John. Sherlock patted the soft hair on the head, wishing to convey the meaning that the Holmes brothers had a way of talking, it shouldn't be taken too seriously. He cared about John and he cared about Redbeard as well. Finally the dog looked happier.

'Brother mine', Mycroft was speaking through the phone, 'you have been given one of the most important cases in your career. This could save many lives. Obviously, you haven't taken to care about that half as much as you cared about a bomber being a puzzle. I gave you information on the old Stopwatch Bomber case, and you decided it was the same perpetrator. So you set out of my office with John to catch this man red-handed at his next bombing site.'

'Did I?' Sherlock asked reflexively, but he didn't doubt it. That wasn't very smart, as far as common sense went. Oh, but the memory was unlocking, he remembered it now. 'Didn't you alert Lestrade?'

'I didn't know where you were going, probably you alerted the DI. You just left my office with John in a mad dash out of here.' Mycroft's words were cold, reasonable.

Suddenly a loud thump behind Sherlock alerted him that something was drastically wrong. As he turned around it felt that he eerily knew already that John had collapsed onto the floor of the hall, where he lay now, with a livid empty expression in his face.

_**.**_

* * *

_A/N: Chapter 9, presenting an elusive, über rational, slightly uninterested in petty Mind dramas Palace Mycroft. When Sherlock's rational side was failing, he called for a very cold reasoning Palace Mycroft._  
So, yes, this went a different way than it was suggested to me. Sorry about that.__

_Still aiming at around 20 chapters and a happy ending.__ -csf_


	10. Chapter 10

_**.**_

_Suddenly a loud thump behind him alerted him that something was drastically wrong._

_**.**_

'John!' he hurried over to Palace John with a strange feeling that he had done that before, not long ago, somewhere else. In a moment he realized he had seen John collapse in the real world. During the case. Just before Sherlock's memories became a vortex of black matter, sucking all knowledge and facts into it, destroying them.

He didn't remember John waking up. John may have not woken up. His life may still be in danger out there.

Sherlock needed to get out of his Palace _now_.

And he needed to get John _help_.

And Palace John was the only presence there that still held any control over the clues, at a time he was slowly growing out of reach. 'Come on, John', he directed through gritted teeth, as he pushed an arm around his neck and helped him up. 'I need to take you to Mrs Hudson, she'll take care of you, John. That nice chicken soup she makes and you'll be fine in no time.'

'Sherlock', John asked him, looking lightheaded as he spoke, 'you need to get out of here. Just leave me here and get out.'

'I'm never leaving you behind.'

He giggled softly. 'Sherlock, I'm a memory in your Mind Palace, I'll be fine. You need to get out... and help the real me.'

'If you're not saying anything useful, just shut up already, John.'

'You pretentious annoying...' he bit his lip before ending his description. 'I'm telling you a lot, if you just pay attention.'

'You're not telling me things I want to know.'

'Then there is only one more thing you can do, Sherlock.' He shook his head heavily.

'What?' he could sense the hesitation in Palace John.

'You need to go to Jim Moriarty. If anyone here can break a rule and tell you what happened it's him.'

'You know what's happening. You can tell me, John.'

'I care too much for you, Sherlock. That's why I can't break your rules in your Palace. Maybe he can tell you what I can't. And then just make sure you get out of here. Don't come back for me. It's yourself that you need to worry about.'

_**.**_

* * *

_A/N: Sorry, small chapter. -csf_


	11. Chapter 11

_**.**_

_'You need to go to Jim Moriarty. If anyone here can break a rule and tell you what happened it's him.'_

_**.**_

Sherlock was all but walking for John, as he supported his friend along the halls of his Mind Palace. Damn the size of it! Why had consulting detectives the need for absurdly huge data repositories? It was taking forever to get John the help he needed. All the while he kept insisting he wasn't important in that fabricated world. That Sherlock needed out. Well, he'd get out – provided he knew how.

Finally they reached the right door. Sherlock wouldn't get it wrong. Plus the smell of rich tea was invading the hallway. 'Mrs Hudson will help you, John.'

'No', he asked stubbornly, despite his state. 'She needs to help you, I'm not important.'

'How can you be so annoying even inside my head?' Sherlock protested, as he knocked on the door. Mrs Hudson came to the door at once.

'Sherlock!' she greeted with a smile. 'Oh, but what happened to John, is he alright, Sherlock?'

The detective pushed inside Mrs Hudson's room, not without some gentleness, as he guided John to the nearby long sofa by the wall. Had it always been there? Certainly not. It hardly mattered, Sherlock had been losing control over his Palace for a while now, too emotional.

As John hit the pillows in the sofa, Mrs Hudson was already promising them a nice cup of tea. In fact, there was almost a whole wall full of tea pots on the other side of the room, by the stove. Sherlock didn't remember that either.

Suddenly he realized the Palace was adjusting to his emotional state, providing him with comfort answers, fabricating things to cover his needs even without a conscious effort. That, Sherlock was quite sure, was against the rules. What was happening?

'Mrs Hudson, I need you to take care of John.'

'But Sherlock', she denied something for the first time ever, 'I can't. You need him, Sherlock.'

'What do you mean _I need him_?'

'He's the one with the answers, dear.'

'He can't tell me the answers!'

'None of us can, and yet all of us are _bending_ your rules a little. I know you wouldn't really mind, given the circumstances.'

'What are the circumstances?' he snarled, all temper lost.

She pressed her lips together and shook her head, as she cleaned her damp hands in a washcloth. 'I do wish you didn't have so many rules, Sherlock. Or such a big brain for that matter... Now, what did John tell you last?'

'He's delirious. Told me to go see Jim Moriarty.'

'Well, you'd better hurry along and see that awful man. I'll take good care of John for you.'

Sherlock accepted at last, reluctantly. Leaving both John and Redbeard behind with Mrs Hudson, he set foot for the staircase, and the depths of his Palace. He didn't enjoy visiting that part, but it was a necessary extension he could not remove from the Palace. As he descended the staircase into the dusky depths, he could feel the cold damp walls as if they were closing in on him, suffocating him, urging him out of there. No, he needed to face the man that was both so dangerous and so like a part of himself.

Sherlock stopped short in sight of an empty cell. Jim was gone.

Jim was wondering around freely in his Palace.

He needed to get back to John and Mrs Hudson. And Molly, and Greg. With a mad man on the loose where his friends held no power, they were all in grave danger.


	12. Chapter 12

_**_._**_

_With a mad man on the loose where his friends held no power, they were all in grave danger._

**_._**

Again Sherlock was running through the halls of his Mind Palace as a mad man. Emotion was blinding him in the temple of rationality, insisting in his need to protect the imprint silhouettes of his friends, and the treasures of objects, pictures and narratives from his childhood, lest they would get tainted by another mad man, one that had set out long ago to destroy him, to make him vulnerable and weak, and defeated.

Sherlock's hands were shaking, his breathing was unsteady. The walls of his Palace could have been crumbling around him for all it mattered, since they were no longer functional, no longer a sanctuary of cold-hearted facts and chosen treasured memories. The walls erected as his refuge were now his prison, and he couldn't find a way out from where he had escaped to so often.

A prisoner in his mind, condemned to realize that he had failed his case, and John, and himself.

In his moment of anguish, Redbeard came running to him. Wagging the tail, as if the swift movement could swipe the confusion and fear away of the Palace owner.

Sherlock would let him try.

The man that was once a child with a dog for a friend held tight to the warm fur, listening to the beating heart, the shallow rushed breathing, and the single-mindedness attitude of understanding and acceptance. The notion of comfort, safety and home all mingled into that one friend in his arms. Redbeard was a wall of support when the world was about to crumble to pieces.

Redbeard had come to find him as if summoned by the detective, yet Sherlock was sure he hadn't called him. Redbeard should be with John right now. Sherlock had been wrong earlier, perhaps even jealous, for he understood now that he actually enjoyed seeing the two get along so well. So Redbeard should be with John, more than with Sherlock, because Palace John needed support and those two already shared a special bond. It was a deep compliment for John – both Palace and Real John, actually – that the dog had been so trusting straight away. Sherlock should take him back. He could manage without him again. Besides, he never was much of a watchdog anyway. Rebdeard would be no match for Jim's plans. Sherlock had integrated Jim in his Palace. Now he needed to control him before he could do serious damage.

Palace John would be highly disappointed if he found out. And John never played by Sherlock's rules in the Palace so there was a good chance he was going to find out, after his rest with Mrs H.

As they were passing along one of the older rooms, suddenly Redbeard started growling at the closed door. His posture was tense, as if finding that something was hiding there. 'Come on, boy, there are no Pirates in here', Sherlock tried to ease him.

Redbeard wouldn't budge. Growling low, spiking his neck hairs. Just like that time on holidays in the country, when he had found a dead squirrel in the woods. Sherlock was sure there were no squirrels in his Palace. Not before that day, and since Sherlock didn't appreciate them reasonably as very comforting creatures, balance of probabilities was that his damaged Palace wasn't creating them now either.

'We need to get in, don't we, boy?' He knew.

Sherlock took a deep breath and twisted the knob. It gave in with a slight pressure.


	13. Chapter 13

_**_._**_

_Sherlock took a deep breath and twisted the knob. It gave in with a slight pressure._

_**.**_

The room was drenched in darkness, except for a long fluorescent lamp tube of light, hanging over a long dark wood table. The island of light pooled around a few objects at the table, as if they were the main and only focus in the room, making them shiny, sleek, modern under the cold sterile light, yet they were all everyday life objects. The link connecting them was obvious, but it hid a true meaning for the strange collection.

All three objects seemed to have something to do with John. His gun, his old cane, Harry's old phone. There seemed to be no logic to that sequence, no apparent meaning behind those clues. What was Sherlock supposed to make of that?

John hadn't plant them there, or he'd have said so. Who then had taken hold of those material memories and displayed surgically in the table top?

Sherlock reached for the Browning. He knew he didn't have much time to figure out their meaning. He just hated anything resembling riddles. The intellectual process implied by riddle solving was of an associative knowledge, not a real puzzle where pieces fell into place to tell a bigger picture, a whole, a truth. Maybe he could cheat. There on the table was this gun. He just didn't know if the imprint memories of real guns could shoot bullets against consulting criminals if proven necessary. Besides, John had specifically told him to _talk_ to Jim Moriarty, there was no mention of _shooting_ him. Unless the used it as a means to talking Jim into going back to his cell and help Sherlock obediently?

Was the gun on the table for Sherlock's use, or did it represent something? He didn't know. He had many doubts. Sherlock wasn't sure of much, lately.

As Sherlock's fingers touched the cold metal, he felt a small static shock. All of a sudden he _remembered_ as clearly as being there right then.

_They were running in the night. Shadows everywhere, that presented the danger of someone hiding to attack them. John was falling behind as always, just a little bit, not much of a distance, and Sherlock was keeping an eye for him by listening to his weary footsteps on the damp pavement._

'_We need to hurry, we need to find the bomb, it's our only chance now!' Sherlock insisted, out of breath._

'_I thought you didn't know how to dismantle a bomb unless it had an off-switch!' John protested, out of breath._

'_Obviously, I learnt since then!?' he stated the obvious._

That was a memory. A very specific memory, returning to him.

A bomb, then. Sherlock and Real Life John had ran into a building rigged to explode in no time. That still didn't explain why Sherlock was trapped in his Palace and Palace John was so drained.

Why was that memory connected to John's gun? A gun had nothing to do with it.

His Palace was still short-circuiting.

Sherlock's head was in a whirlwind. Actually, so seemed to be his Mind Palace. All that Sherlock knew was that the solution lay on the outside, that he needed to get out to help John, that there was a case with a bomber, and a bomb itself, and he had no notion of the time elapsed after John had mysteriously collapsed.

He needed to push forward. He reached out to the cane intently.


	14. Chapter 14

_**.**_

_His Palace was still short-circuiting._

**.**

_The maddening roar of the explosion was only half as scary as the sound that followed. It was as if all the metal structure of the building had come to life, and as some sort of a wounded beast on its last dying breath, it moaned as the steal bended and twisted under its own weight. The structure was collapsing on itself, with both detective and doctor still inside. Only the ground floor was still standing strong at the moment, against the progressive decay of the building above._

_The heavy fog of strangely smelling dust of concrete and structural particles alike was also hot like a desert storm. Exothermic reactions breaking down the concrete, plus the dislodged excess bout of air from the explosion, most likely._

_Sherlock was just about proud of how his mind was still so sharp and alert after the tumble that the hot air mass had caused him to take when with a sickening twist in his stomach he finally recalled he hadn't been alone. John. How could he have slipped through the cracks of his injured brain?_

'_John? Where are you?' No answer. Just the long moan of the structure and the blinding dust settling all around him._

Gasping for air, as the memory intertwined with the present reality and shock, Sherlock reached for the last object, the phone that had belonged to John's sister, the one he had lent Sherlock for texts so often that Sherlock had memorised every single scratch from keys and coins. He braced himself for the next answer. A deep feeling of dread nestling inside him.

'_I'm stuck, Sherlock. I can't get through the debris. You need to go without me.' His voice was scared but strong-willed. 'You need to get out and find help. It's my only chance.'_

'_I'm not leaving you behind, John.'_

'_I trust you.'_

'_I don't trust myself, my head has suffered a strong concussion most likely.'_

'_I know you won't forget me. Just go, now. Hurry.'_

'_John?' he could read something buried in his friend's strained voice._

'_Don't worry, I'm just tired, Sherlock, so very tired.'_

'_Are you hurt? Tell me you're not hurt!'_

'_I honestly don't know', he giggled. 'I'm a doctor and I can't tell. Can't see a thing, it's pitch dark in here. I'm just feeling tired, so I should be alright. And I'm alert and responsive, right?'_

Kind of._ There was a slight slur in John's voice now. Sherlock needed to make a decision. Either abandon John to try and find help, or trust that someone had heard the explosion and help was already on his way._

_Damn. He needed to give John the best chances. And, right now, the best chances, as far as he could see it coldly, were to abandon John and dart right out of the collapsing building. Only that way he could make sure that emergency was on its way to John._

_So why did it feel so wrong?_

_Rationality had to win in the end. Sherlock had to ponder his and John's best chances. And it meant to make the toughest decision anyone could be asked to do. To abandon a friend in need, perhaps in life-threatening danger, because the odds to help him were better if he left, and searched for help outside._

_John was losing grip on reality slowly. He could suddenly realize Sherlock was gone and don't remember why. He could believe Sherlock had gone away to save himself, he most certainly would deduce it, from the evidence presented to him. There was no way, no way at all, for Sherlock to convey to John the sense that he wouldn't leave him behind to save himself, that John wasn't really alone as he was facing death in the eye again._

John's stoic matter-of-fact answer from long ago - "Please, God, let me live" - echoed in the empty halls of Sherlock's Mind Palace.

_**.**_

* * *

_A/N: Yes, I went there. But I also said I'm pushing for a happy-ending._

_The trouble is that there's no wi-fi signal in the wilderness mountains, so next chapter will have to wait for me to come back to the urban life. In other words, I'll be MIA for the weekend. That should give me some breathing space to wrap my mind around chapter 16 (and 17?) that has become my nemesis in this short-story. -csf_


	15. Chapter 15

_**_._**_

_Rationality had to win in the end._

_._

There was no further indication that Sherlock had managed to get out of the collapsing building and get John the help he needed.

Sherlock felt like the blood was freezing in his veins. He knew logic had dictated his choice. Chances were he had actually left John, looking for an exit route out of the building. That he had fallen unconscious due to his concussion, maybe even before calling for help and indicating John's location to the rescuers, and all the while John was hoping for an impossible help that couldn't come. This had to be the worst time he had ever failed John. It felt like he had failed himself too.

Palace John had been all the while full of hidden clues. Sherlock had dismissed them because he was still crossed by the level of liberties that sassy Palace John had always taken to himself. Sitting on Sherlock's chair to try and read his Childhood memories books, wondering around hearing Sherlock's audition pieces in the violin when the detective was younger, knocking on everyone else's door to have chats with them. This time Palace John had actually been useful, but Sherlock hadn't given him enough attention. He had asked the detective:

_'How do you know how long you've been here already, Sherlock?'_

Hopefully, less than he thought. He usually had a fast mind, that his speech pattern could hardly keep up with, right? Maybe, just maybe, hope could flourish again, that he wasn't there for that long, that he could still push out of his Palace, wake up, and get Real Life John the help he needed.

Even without proofs, he needed to hold on to that hope and perform his task. He needed to save John Watson's life.

'Neat, isn't it?' The eerily cheerful voice boasting behind the detective was hardly mistakable. Jim.

'So you put these here', Sherlock said out loud. Somehow it felt wrong, to have had Jim taint those memories. 'You let me know what happened. Why? What is in it for you?'

Jim shrugged, hands in his pockets, smiling as he suppressed a giggle spree. Deranged as ever. 'Oh Sherlock dear, can't you really tell? Have you become this ordinary?' He even glanced around as if assessing an invisible audience. 'Granted I usually go for more flair, but I didn't want the stage to outshine your crushed expression. Do you not know it yet? How you abandoned your _best friend_?

Sherlock grabbed John's Browning. 'I can shoot you now.'

Jim bit his lip, as if pretending to be afraid. 'I'd check the bullets on that if I were you.'

'My Palace, I can make bullets.'

Jim didn't look frightened at all. He probably knew the state of the Palace's synapses wiring, short-circuiting.

Then it hit Sherlock. Jim was making him waste precious time. That was why he appeared when the plan of having Sherlock consumed by guilt was well under way.

Palace Jim was secondary, no matter the mayhem he'd cause in Sherlock's Mind Home. Real John was more important. He needed to set wrongs right. He needed to save John, somehow. He'd figure it out.


	16. Chapter 16

_**.**_

_He needed to save John, somehow. He'd figure it out._

**.**

Sherlock was adamant of his departure. No more chitchat. That darkened room, Jim, the Palace, all behind him soon. His resolve had never been so strong.

No more strolls on a safe haven, around treasured moments. Even if it signified that Sherlock could never return, if he had locked himself out, just as he had locked himself in before, he'd still leave it all behind. John needed him.

From behind him, Jim would still call out, taunting, tantalizing:

'You don't need him, Sherlock! He's a hobby, a distraction. He's not like you, no one is, no one can ever be. He's making you slow, ordinary.'

_Ordinary_ man and _ordinary by proxy_ detective. Was that really how Jim viewed Sherlock and John's friendship? Of course not. That was Jim using Sherlock's rationality and fears against him. Palace John lived in his mind, he had picked up on old social interaction patterns and was confronting the detective with them. He was using Sherlock's old mottos against him. _Brilliant._

John Watson had always been important, even to Jim Moriarty. Or he'd been eliminated as a dispensable pawn a long time ago. In real life, Sherlock and Jim stood as polar opposites in so many ways. In this one aspect, they were alike. Both affected by the man with the least importance in the game, the conductor of light none the less. The piece with less control in the game had everyone else gravitating around him. Sherlock, Mycroft, Irene, Jim. All the big pieces in the big game had halted at some point to understand what John stood for.

And if the price to save John was to become ordinary, Sherlock knew now this was a price he was willing to pay.

'He'll never forgive you, Sherlock. He knows you left him behind. He's disappointed, hurt. Even if you save him, you'll have to live the rest of your life knowing you failed him, and he'll keep well away from you, like you know he should be doing from the start.'

That didn't even sound like Jim anymore. Those were his own fears verbalised.

No more riddles from the riddle-maker. No more taunting. John was all that mattered as Sherlock reached the long white halls, the dark wood doors fading into more white, Jim's voice receding in the background. Sherlock was headstrong walking out, he knew not how or where, he just knew it as a fact.

'Sherlock!' he was called out desperately, one last vicious effort. 'Roses are red, violets are blue, here's a bullet just for you!'

It was too late to run, he knew it. Instinctively, Sherlock closed his eyes, and braced himself for the familiar pain.

It never came.

He snapped his eyes open, Redbeard was growling with his teeth right next to a fallen to the ground Jim, wriggling him to submission.

Sherlock would bet Jim never saw that coming; that Sherlock was loved despite his flaws.

He couldn't help but smile. Redbeard would keep the Palace in check for him.

Sherlock left at last.

_**.**_

* * *

_A/N: I'm not particularly happy with this chapter. Maybe it's because I've wrestled with it so much. A thousand apologies if it's as bad as it feels. -csf_


	17. Chapter 17

_**.**_

_Sherlock left at last._

_**.**_

The bleak walls were barely discernible amid the clouds of floating dust. The atmosphere was heavy, unhealthy, musty. As Sherlock recovered his faculties, he mused that he was breathing the building itself, the microscopic parts of it floating in the air.

'_Sherlock! Talk to me!'_

It was hot. Smelly. It smelled of explosives and dust, and ancient mummies like in that one time Mycroft lost him in the Natural History Museum and he had wondered into the storage areas.

'_Sherlock, look at me! Where's John? We need to know where John is!'_

Greg Lestrade was there. Hi, Greg. Or is he Gavin?

'_Sherlock, focus, there is no time!'_

Sherlock proceeded to blink. Greg was still there. Behind him an army of fluorescent vested rescuers plunged through the unstable debris and structural remnants. Greg insisted, thundering as he demanded Sherlock's attention.

'John... He's here with me', Sherlock managed to mumble and point before it all got misty again.

_**.**_

What Sherlock had once been convinced were his final moments - highly disappointing, nothing remotely interesting in being so close to one's demise, romanticised novels were terribly misleading - hadn't been final at all. Sherlock had woken up in a hospital long enough ago to understand that the nurse on call had a gambling addiction and the auxiliary doctor was an idiot in wanting to run every test he could name on Sherlock just to flirt with the lab assistant.

_A concussion_. Well, John would tell him what Sherlock thought about concussions in no time.

Well, the concussion did explain his mind's dream-like creative spur. There'd be a lot of cleaning up in his Palace after that.

But Sherlock was in no hurry to regress back inside. Not that he feared finding himself in the same predicament. He instinctively felt that he had a grasp on the situation again. Actually, Sherlock was more interested in watching John sleeping peacefully in the next bed.

John had been found with a nasty wound that had cost him quite some blood loss, but for the most part he was alright now he had got medical attention (given the circumstances).

Prompt intervention had minimised the damage to both. Between the blast of the explosion and collapse of the industrial building and the incoming of rescuers, not so much time seemed to have elapsed in the real world.

Mycroft's influence was in plain sight, having arranged a private room for the both of them. It turned out Sherlock's brother had actually been useful, after his blundered performance in the Palace.

Yes, because for Sherlock, his Palace was a reality in itself, even if an alternative one, subjected to real life. He still remembered seeing John patting Redbeard's fur, and getting licked all over his face for his trouble. That might have been some sort of hallucination from an injured brain, but it was also a treasured memory in his Library now. And John and Redbeard could consult it by taking a seat in the blue tapestry chair.

In real life, he had one of his friends close by, and a desire to share those memories with him. He'd always have his Palace, and the memories and emotions around the people that had one way or another become integral part of his Palace over the years, but he knew that wasn't quite enough. He wanted to have John seating in Baker Street's red tapestry chair and share some of his childhood memories with him. And hear some of John's, to confirm his deductions of his childhood, to expand his knowledge of his friend's past.

Something had become more apparent, regardless of having been a part of a technical hallucination from a traumatised brain.


	18. Chapter 18

_**.**_

_In real life, he had one of his friends close by, and a desire to share those memories with him._

_**.**_

Lestrade was there again (_Greg_, that was it, of course; _wasn't it?_). This time the DI came visiting Sherlock and John, worried about the concussed detective with little patience for hospitals and slow recoveries, and the weakened doctor with a particular disregard for following the instructions he'd prescribe himself if the tables were turned.

'Sherlock, we found you both inside the blown up building. It's practically a miracle that the building didn't collapse with us in there.' Greg sat on the visitor's chair with the ease of a man that had done that before, Sherlock noticed. But why visit a patient that wasn't awake? Even markings on the floor from Mycroft's faithful umbrella showed he had stopped by earlier. Nonsensical useless (yet surprisingly comforting) tendencies. Greg kept going: 'And John was where you said. You two were standing close to each other. You didn't leave him.'

The detective felt shocked, irked. 'I should have.' Seeing the shock his words had provoked on the DI, he stated: 'My inaction could have zeroed the chances for John's survival. I was convinced I had gone out.'

Greg tightened his jaw and licked his lips slowly, trying to understand the detective, and not aggravate him so close to what he had gone through. 'I can't understand how you believed you had gone, Sherlock. You say you thought you remembered it?'

Sherlock nodded. 'Surely it means I intended to do the right rational thing, right?' he asked, almost as if pleading for acknowledgement.

Greg sighed, the weight of his age suddenly showing.

'Your rational brain is so messed up, Sherlock, I don't even know where to start. Look, sometimes, the rational answer isn't the only right answer. Sherlock, you haven't left John behind, and that doesn't mean you cared less about his survival probabilities. It means you couldn't leave John behind. Just that. And John wouldn't have left you behind either, if it were the other way around. I know that for a fact. Despite all the medical core training John has had in a war scenario, he'd still break the rules to be with his best friend, you. It's not wrong. It's human. It's caring. It's emotion.'

Sherlock frowned. Greg thought he might as well carry on: 'I bet John told you to leave, and put you up to believing that with a broken leg and a concussion you could have left and found help, directing that help back to him, all in enough time. Well, I've got some news for you, Mr Consulting Detective. John wanted you out because he knew the building was going to collapse soon, and he wanted to save your life. He lied to you, Sherlock, masterfully done. He manipulated you for your own sake. Because you matter to him. And what you do saves lives. And he'd protect you even at the cost of his own life. That's why he lied to you. And, Sherlock, you can feel as angry as you like, you know he'd still do it again. And so would you, because you are one logical bastard with a very big heart.'

Sherlock looked away, pretending to be unaffected by the clear notion that John would have lied to him to protect him.

'Look at your hands, Sherlock.' Greg was on a roll now. 'Your knuckles are scrapped and your fingertips are hurt because you were clawing off debris, insisting on getting John out of his trap. We found you still with pieces of clutter in your hands. Why would you be holding dirt and brick in your hands to leave John? Sherlock, you stayed till the end to push him out, no matter the odds to you.'

'I let emotion get the best of me', Sherlock recognised at last. In real life and in his Palace.

'Yes. Good thing too, because I don't think we'd have had the time to locate the both of you and get you out if you weren't together. As it were, the risk was already very high.'

Greg had done the same; risked his life beyond reason to save the detective and the doctor. 'Wait! You went inside a collapsing building with a team of rescuers you managed to persuade in order to save my life. And John's.'

'Just getting that now?' Greg lightened the mood. 'Look, I'm going to tell the nurse John is waking up, I can see him stirring.'

Sherlock looked over at his friend, feeling the gratitude of seeing him awake wash over him. In the real world, Greg had plotted to save them despite safety rules. Thus proving all rules can be broken. To save both. Because both mattered. They had been found separated by a wall of debris, but united as they were on either side leaning towards one another.

_**.**_

* * *

_A/N: A bit of a longer chapter, Greg was on a roll; can I put the blame on Greg? (...It was worth the try...)_

_Last chapter is next. -csf_


	19. Chapter 19

_**.**_

_Thus proving all rules can be broken. _

_**.**_

Baker Street was as usual upon Sherlock's return. It didn't take much for Mrs Hudson to offer to make them tea, echoing events past, and for John to be convinced into staying a while longer in his armchair. It was inevitable that Sherlock thought of how familiar that situation felt, and on the memory-copy of his friend. Palace John's probably having a blast, roaming free in the Palace quarters, playing with Redbeard and breaking all rules as usual.

'Good thing I had a strange dream. A reverie of an impressed banged-up mind. Useful, none the less', Sherlock considered out loud.

John frowned, not following at all. How could he? 'What?'

'Never mind.'

'You might as well tell me, Sherlock', John was insisting with a kind smile.

The consulting detective looked around 221B's living room. It reminded him of his Palace's Childhood Library, and of John, in a blue armchair. It was similar to being there, opening one of his deeply engraved velvety bounded volumes of memories and showing them to Palace John and Redbeard on his lap. He'd always have _them_, but he knew he could also have _this_ as well.

In a structured narrative, not without some embellishments for he was Sherlock Holmes, the one and only consulting detective in the world, Sherlock told John all that had happened in the Palace.

For a moment he feared that the doctor on the other chair mocked the fantasist element of his narrative. But of course not. This was John. He was as accepting as ever, even smiling at the description of a mischievous Palace John.

'So you had a gun, a cane and a phone', John recalled, as one would ponder over the hidden clues of a riddle, at the end of Sherlock's narrative.

'Not just any gun, cane and phone, John. They were yours', Sherlock said, somewhat impatiently.

John smiled. 'And I just had then laying there? I guess I'm a bit of a slob mess in your Palace.'

'And a neat freak in real life', Sherlock took the chance being offered with the same lightness.

'Well, it's easy, isn't it?' John shrugged. 'The objects were linked to the episodes you recalled, just don't know why they were mine, I supposed a part of your genius brain was worried about me.'

'What do you mean, linked?'

'Well, the gun was for the explosion, the bomb. You know, gunpowder, noise, _boom_? And the cane was for structural support. My support for walking when the damned leg hurt, and for the building precariously standing up. And the phone was for communication, talking.' As he saw a flicker of surprise and wonder in Sherlock's expression, he cleared: 'I'm not that bad with riddles, Sherlock. It doesn't take a genius for riddles. And for a genius there's you already. Maybe I can help with other stuff.'

'You help more than you know already, John. You are essential to me.'

John bit back a smile as he lowered his head suddenly fascinated by the fire in the mantle. That was okay; Sherlock was as swiftly verifying the alphabetic order of the magazines thrown on the bottom shelf by his chair. They were allowed a bit of temporary mushiness after what they had been through.

'Sherlock, what else do you keep in your Library?' John provided them with a break.

'That room contains mostly childhood memories.'

'Oh, really? You never talk about your childhood.'

So it was. Sherlock frowned. 'I should talk to you about my dog. Redbeard and you got along very well in my reverie, after all.'

John nodded, interested.

Back at the Palace and also on real life Baker Street, Sherlock's sharing childhood memories he had kept secretive before.

_**.**_

* * *

_A/N: __So many thanks for sticking around, for the interest and the support. I declare this complete at 19 chapters._

_I suspect I should write one day Sherlock's wild-child genius stories he tells John; and on how Palace John was essential to adult Sherlock during his Absence, dismantling Moriarty's ring. But that would be surplus on this story. Maybe even surplus in itself._

__Lastly, writing this has jogged so many memories of my own pet of 16 years.  
May we all be single-mindedly absolutely loved and love back at least once in our lives._ -csf_


End file.
